


on shipwreck shore

by roisale



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M, interhigh 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-14 16:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roisale/pseuds/roisale
Summary: “Next time we come down here, it’ll be with a full raid team and a shit ton of handcuffs,” Iwaizumi says as they head for the nearest exit.“That’s very forward of you, Iwa-chan, but I feel compelled to let you know that’s a terrible first date, and I don’t put out that easily,” Oikawa says with unfiltered glee, and just like that, all three of Iwaizumi’s positive Oikawa-related feelings disappear.“I’m going to murder you in cold blood and feed you to the basilisks,” Iwaizumi says conversationally.“You can’t do that, I’m your boss,” Oikawa sings, positively sparkling. “Also we’repartners, which means,” he points at Iwaizumi and leans in, “you’re stuck with me.”





	on shipwreck shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imadoki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadoki/gifts).



 

Putting the weekly scrapes with death, possession, and general maiming aside, Iwaizumi's life is pretty unremarkable, in his opinion. He shows up to work on time and does his job competently, he's built a friendly rapport with his coworkers through collective commiseration, and his boss, in keeping with an ancient tradition handed down throughout the ages, takes immeasurable pride and joy in pulling shit on him last-minute.

"You're transferring," his boss says, slapping a worryingly thick manila folder on his desk.

Iwaizumi looks at the folder, and then at his boss, who's standing there completely unbothered. Historically, this scenario has not boded well for him, and he places a hand on the folder with trepidation. "When?"

"Right now," his boss says casually, and then walks away like all he'd said was _hello_ or _good morning_ or _not to worry, Iwaizumi, no bombs will be dropped today_!

"Is he allowed to do that? I want to say he's breaking some sort of policy and about fifty meters of red tape, but I'm not actually sure, at this point," Sawamura says from the adjacent desk, where he's filing reports. Sawamura is possibly both the sanest and most reliable person in their entire department, a combination of titles Iwaizumi does not bequeath lightly. That he has personally witnessed Sawamura engage in a fistfight over the last set meal in the cafeteria affects this judgment approximately not at all. "You just got back from that undercover stint over in Ishinomaki a few days ago."

There once was a point in Iwaizumi's life where he would've said the same thing, although with less diplomacy. That time is long gone, along with his previous aversion towards violence, gore, and catastrophic mayhem. His case in Ishinomaki had generously included all three, like the world's worst buy-two-get-one-free deal.

"There's probably a reason for it," Iwaizumi says. It isn't the first time he's been reassigned without notice, and the recent spike in otherworld activity indicates that won't be changing any time soon, unless golem research advances far enough to replace all their agents in the field. Despite his lack of clairvoyance (and for better or worse), Iwaizumi does not foresee this coming to pass while he’s still alive or in the workforce. There’s something to be said for the effect social rights movements have on his job security.

Sawamura tilts his head a little, studying Iwaizumi with sympathy. "I'll finish up the paperwork for you, then, if you'll send me the files. Where are you transferring to?"

Iwaizumi flips the folder open. Lying on top is his new badge, with his name and position printed in kanji so small he has to hold it about six inches from his face to read properly. There’s an inscripted rune under his scowling face that glows pale green when he sends a pass of magic through it. "Oh."

"Oh?" Sawamura echoes him with polite curiosity.

"Fourth division," Iwaizumi says, shoving the contents of his desk into his bag. The desk has, technically, been his for a while, but the nature of his job is not one that involves staying there, so there isn’t much to pack aside from some office supplies and his favorite coffee mug. “Mostly big cases, but some cold ones every now and then, too.”

"Fourth? You know, they got a new chief a few months ago," Sawamura says offhandedly, scanning his computer screen with his chin propped on his hand. "He's a Tokyo transfer, but I hear he's from Miyagi originally."

"Yeah?" In the meantime, Iwaizumi debates the fate of his stapler. On one hand, it's just a stapler, but on the other hand, it's a _really_ good stapler and boasts a success rate the likes of which no other office stapler could possibly hope to match.

Sawamura nods, punctuating the pauses in their conversation with clicks of his mouse. "I think his name is Oikawa Tooru? He’s about our age, but I've heard a lot of good things."

“Looking forward to it, then,” Iwaizumi says, and heads to the eighth floor.

 

***

 

Iwaizumi, not being prone to needless overthinking, walks into Division 4 with no expectations. Oikawa Tooru somehow manages to let him down anyway.

“I’m Oikawa,” he says, bowing slightly. He’s got bright brown eyes and artfully tousled hair and looks entirely too young to be in charge of anyone, let alone a major crimes unit. “Welcome to the team, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi looks around, like maybe there’s some other transfer who’s a _fetus_ , because _Iwa-chan_ is not something you call an adult stranger in a professional work environment under _any circumstance ever_. “I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten the department wrong,” Iwaizumi says, even though the rune on his ID is glowing and Oikawa clearly knows who he is.

Oikawa Tooru is tall and lean and handsome and looks like he’d stepped fresh out of a movie. Oikawa Tooru is the chief of Division 4 and his new boss. Oikawa Tooru squawks and hurriedly says, “No, wait, come back, you’re in the right place — Iwaizumi Hajime, from eighth division, right?”

“Yes,” Iwaizumi says, eyeing him with barely disguised distrust.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Oikawa says, unruffled. He leans in, inspecting Iwaizumi’s face with obvious interest. “Like how you took down a whole nest of mermaid hunters by yourself, and how you’re an amazing field medic, too — ” he tilts his head to the side, “and also that you’re built like a gorilla, I mean, I thought that was a weird thing to say at first, but I see the resemblance _now — ”_

 

***

 

“You _liar_ ,” Iwaizumi hisses at his phone while hiding in the bathroom during his lunch break.

Sawamura, defending his honor from the other end of the line: “I said I’d _heard_ good things about him!”

 

***

 

Iwaizumi comes back to his new desk armed with a new attitude: grin, bear it, and pretend Oikawa isn’t existing concurrently on this particular plane of existence. And it all goes swimmingly until reality catches up to him, and Iwaizumi has to resign himself to the cold, hard facts, which are:  a.) he’s just not made to be a diplomat, especially when b.) the other party is Oikawa, who has called him _Iwa-chan_ no less than eight times in the two hours Iwaizumi’s worked under him.

“I’m twenty-seven,” Iwaizumi says to his deskmate, a clean-looking kid named Yahaba. “I’m a grown man.”

“I see,” Yahaba says, with immaculate courtesy.

Iwaizumi struggles to articulate the exact nature of his concerns appropriately. He winds up saying, “Why — what — _Iwa-chan_ ,” more desperately than he means to.

“He does it to everyone,” Yahaba offers, like that’s supposed to be any consolation. It might be. He’s not above being consoled by a junior on his first day in a new division. Iwaizumi thanks him and throws himself into work to cope with the reality of having Oikawa Tooru as a boss.

 

***

 

Iwaizumi’s impressions of his first few months in Division 4 are the following:

 

  1. Division 4 does, in fact, handle prominent cases, the kinds that are guaranteed news coverage from multiple press sources. Oikawa, being unfortunately handsome, irrepressibly charming, and also the head of the department, usually winds up at press conferences walking the thread-thin line between satisfying journalists and keeping confidential information confidential with expert grace. Iwaizumi, begrudgingly, is impressed.
  2. Due to the nature of their work, at least half the squad is working on the same long-haul case at any given point in time (and often overtime, at that), which means Iwaizumi’s work relationships make the exponential jump from ‘we respect each other from a socially acceptable distance’ to ‘everyone has seen each other either at their worst or naked’, the latter set of terms being only occasionally mutually exclusive.
  3. It’s not that he can’t explain how #2 happened. He can, but it still boggles the mind, and sounds a lot less convincing when he says it out loud.
  4. The typical work environment hierarchy is poorly enforced and usually forgotten altogether — Yahaba and Watari are respectful but not frigidly formal; Hanamaki and Matsukawa spend more time dragging Oikawa for absolute filth than doing their actual jobs some days. Comparatively, Kindaichi and Kunimi behave like obedient children — that is to say, like normal new recruits — while Kyoutani, one of the younger field agents, has an attitude that would get him fired within two minutes under any other boss. But because he works under Oikawa Tooru instead of not-Oikawa-Tooru, he keeps his job despite being uncooperative and sullen and getting into fights, mostly with Yahaba but also with everyone else.
  5. (Not with Iwaizumi, though. After enough alcohol to warrant a hospital visit, the entire department challenges Iwaizumi to an arm wrestling contest. Iwaizumi demolishes the competition, and for some reason, _that’s_ what wins him Kyoutani’s respect. In a moment of rare bluntness made possible only by inebriation and two years of nonstop squabbling with Kyoutani, Yahaba tells Iwaizumi he’d make a good dog trainer.)
  6. Iwaizumi, since now he’s part of a _team_ , does not get sent out to wrangle criminals on his own every other day. This does wonders for his paperwork efficiency now that he doesn’t have to take time out of his day for hospital visits, which the government dictates as necessary despite Iwaizumi’s obvious healing magic. He gets a raise, which is nice. He also gets the shittiest chair in the office, which is less nice.
  7. After Iwaizumi goes a whole month without showing up to the hospital, Sugawara actually goes out of his way to pilfer Sawamura’s phone to call and make sure his transfer is legitimate, and that he hadn’t died in the line of action during a top-secret mission the government had covered up in the name of national security.
  8. Oikawa steals _his_ phone in the middle of his conversation with Sugawara and somehow they hit it off and are now friends or something. Oikawa pesters Iwaizumi for Sugawara’s number, which of course Iwaizumi doesn’t have, so Iwaizumi has to ask Sawamura instead, because “my boss won’t shut up about it, I’m so sorry — ” to which Sawamura complies with polite bemusement.



 

First impressions aside, Oikawa eventually — _eventually_ — starts to grow on him. Iwaizumi is reluctant to admit this, but that’s how it is sometimes.

The thing about Oikawa Tooru is that he's an absolute mess of contradictions that somehow all manage to be true at the same time. The thing about Iwaizumi is that he is none of those things, much less Oikawa’s specific combination thereof, but he’s stuck with him anyway.

"Iwa-chan, come look at this," Oikawa will say, sounding as daisy-fresh and saccharine as if it were ten in the morning on a fresh summer day instead of past midnight at an institute of information gathering and crime prevention. He'll make a come-hither sort of motion, beckoning Iwaizumi towards his desk, an isolated pool of light in the darkness, and Iwaizumi, against his better judgment, goes over every single time.

"What am I supposed to be looking at, exactly," Iwaizumi will say, stolidly unimpressed.

Oikawa will get all huffy and affronted, like Iwaizumi's inability to decipher whatever the hell it is he's got blown up five hundred percent on his screen is absolutely unthinkable; _unconscionable_ , even. "Isn't it obvious?"

It usually isn't. Iwaizumi maintains he'd have an easier time piecing together a ten-foot, twenty-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle of an early-stage sphinx ultrasound, and he doesn't exactly specialize in ob-gyn. "For the last time," he'll say, "I'm a field agent, not a conspiracy theorist, so unless you need me to fight a griffin or amputate your leg in the middle of a blizzard, I can't help you."

And then Oikawa will say, with a smile that would probably be refreshing on someone else, or at the very least, if it wasn't Iwaizumi looking at it, "Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Don't be so hard on yourself, Iwa-chan. You're a lot smarter than you look, after all,” — at which point whatever paltry remnants of Iwaizumi's patience (heavily dependent on what consecutive day of working overnight they're on) fly straight out the window, presumably to move on to greener pastures and causes not yet irrevocably lost.

Like clockwork or something just as relentless in its certainty, whatever has Oikawa preoccupied for those sleepless nights ends up being a new lead, or a piece of decisive evidence, and when the case is inevitably solved with a flourish, Oikawa takes the department on their semi-monthly nomikai where they all drink themselves senseless to fill the void left by sleep deprivation. The following morning, everybody shows up to work in varying stages of hangover recovery to start everything all over again.

(Complying with the unspoken rules of the nomikai, whatever happened the previous night is left to be buried forever in the sands of time.)

In a truly terrible way, this, too, becomes a routine of sorts, blending almost seamlessly in with the rest of his day, with the rest of his life: Iwaizumi has always been able to adapt himself to the circumstances, but Oikawa crosses the border separating Circumstance from This Is How Your Life Is Now the way he does everything else: with seeming ease and a blinding smile that always manages to set off Iwaizumi's fight-or-flight instinct. Between the two, it's usually 'fight', because he's Iwaizumi Hajime instead of someone who could find the energy or care to be intimidated by Oikawa Tooru.

“You are an absolute barbarian,” Oikawa tells him. He says this often. This time, it’s with an undertone of righteous hurt that would be a lot more convincing if Iwaizumi hadn’t found him eating the last pudding (that has Iwaizumi’s name written on it, and therefore _does not belong to him_ ) and delivered swift punishment. Also it’s Oikawa Tooru, so Iwaizumi is valid in his sentencing, always and forever. He points the plastic spoon in Iwaizumi’s direction. “I’m putting a curse on you, Iwa-chan. You’re going to be unpopular _forever_.”

“The real curse is having to see your face five days a week,” Iwaizumi says, unbothered, and Oikawa sputters and demands he take it back, _right this instant, Iwa-chan, this is why you’re single_ _—_ to which Iwaizumi makes a pointed inquiry regarding the status of Oikawa’s current relationship.

“I don’t know why they always break up with me after a few weeks,” Oikawa says, put out.

Iwaizumi knows why, and he thinks Oikawa probably knows it, too. Underneath the polish and the appallingly pretty face and the billboard smiles, Oikawa’s a dizzying maelstrom of a man held together almost exclusively by the crushing weight of self-inflicted pressure and a drive so relentless Iwaizumi has, on occasion, wondered if it’s the result of possession. There’s something unfathomably hungry about him — Oikawa’s always chasing after everything just out of his reach, and when Iwaizumi watches him sharpen his own edges like a blade, he thinks he understands how little room is leftover for someone who doesn’t know how to navigate a storm.

But the point — the _point_ is, in the span of a few months, Oikawa has become a part of the parameters that define Iwaizumi's life instead of residing either in or out of them, and maybe the worst part, the _absolute worst —_ is that he doesn't know when or how it all happened.

"Good morning, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says every morning, already at his desk and poring through a small library's worth of files, and sometimes Iwaizumi will check the clock just to make sure he hasn't stepped in an alternate universe where he's twenty minutes late instead of being half an hour early.  

It's only Oikawa's greeting that never changes. Iwaizumi’s gone through a series of simplifications on his end, from "Good morning, Oikawa," to "Morning," and now, Iwaizumi's usual response is either a nod or a noncommittal sort of grunt Oikawa teases him mercilessly for. "Iwa-chan, you never told me you were fluent in caveman," he'll say, right before Iwaizumi aims whatever he has on hand in his direction. Oikawa squawks indignantly when he gets hit, and comments on Iwaizumi’s poor aim when he doesn't, but not once has he seriously reprimanded Iwaizumi for failing to greet him properly.

In Iwaizumi's defense (and not that he needs it, mind you), he'd have a lot more energy to spare for pleasantries if he didn't spend half the week working past midnight for Oikawa's sake in the first place.

"I hate to be the one to tell you, but nobody is making you do this," Matsukawa informs him gravely after finding Iwaizumi asleep under his desk in the morning for the _nth_ time. "The rest of us go home on the last train like reasonable government workers."

The joke here is that the last train is still at midnight, and they're still all working more overtime than they probably should be, but Iwaizumi just scrubs a hand over his face, wincing when his palm meets stubble. "Someone's gotta make sure he gets to sleep, even if it's four hours instead of eight," Iwaizumi says, despite the obvious alternative staring both of them in the face.

Matsukawa just raises one heavy brow — it's always the left one, too — and gives Iwaizumi this _look_ , the kind that says, _you're not convincing anybody, but especially not yourself_. Iwaizumi elects to ignore the entirety of Matsukawa's face in favor of shrugging on his department-issued jacket and swiping the car keys from his desk. "Be back later," he says, and takes the stairs all the way from the eighth floor down to the basement parking garage, where Oikawa is leaning against the car in his trench coat looking straight off the cover of _Vogue_ magazine for some fucking reason.

Oikawa looks up at the sound of Iwaizumi's footsteps on the concrete and gives this megawatt smile that'd have half the neighborhood stumbling around dazed if exposed to the public. Iwaizumi’s reaction to it is a scowl that’s rapidly becoming Pavlovian in nature. "Oh, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi unlocks the car and buckles himself into the driver's seat. "Got the list of addresses?"

"Who do you take me for," Oikawa sniffs, already punching the postal code in on the GPS. He turns to Iwaizumi and flashes him an almost conspiratorial smile. "We've got a whole day of investigating ahead of us, Iwa-chan. Let's have some fun!"

"To date," Iwaizumi says, turning the key in the ignition, "not once have I ever had fun while on a case with you."

"But you work all your cases with me," Oikawa says, kindly, like it’d slipped Iwaizumi’s mind and Oikawa’s being magnanimous and reminding him.

"I do, don't I," Iwaizumi says thoughtfully, and pulls out of the parking spot. Oikawa looks at him like a wounded animal the rest of the ride and demands Iwaizumi recompense him for emotional damage. Iwaizumi hands him a single hundred-yen coin.

“You’re supposed to tell me to buy myself something nice _,_ Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, turning his nose up at the attempted bribery and giving him a look that’s supposed to be sly and insinuating but really just reads as petulant and pigtail-yanking. Theoretically, Iwaizumi could respond with maturity and poise. _Theoretically_. He settles for threatening Oikawa with bodily harm. Oikawa says he’ll call the police, Iwaizumi says they _are_ the police, and everything is absolutely fine.

 

***

 

In September, Iwaizumi finds himself in the distinctly unenviable position of creeping through the sewers with Oikawa like a pair of particularly unfortunate goblins.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi begins pleasantly, and dodges a suspicious stream of liquid trickling from the low ceiling that screams HEALTH HAZARD. “Are you having fun right now?”

The floating werelights that tail them like baby ducks cast soft shadows over Oikawa’s face, emphasizing the wrinkling of his nose when he turns and says, “Do I look like I’m having fun, Iwa-chan?”

To clarify: when Iwaizumi says, _are you having fun right now_ , what he really means is, _why are we hunting for an illegal basilisk farm in the sewers_ , but Oikawa either doesn’t notice or is deliberately ignoring it. Iwaizumi looks down the long, long tunnel ahead of them and sees no light, figuratively or otherwise, so he just comes out and says it. “Is there a reason we’re running around on foot instead of just sending out a trace?”

Oikawa hums something Iwaizumi doesn’t recognize but is probably perfectly in tune because it’s Oikawa. “Traces only work if there are wards in the first place, and basilisk farmers usually try to fly under the radar instead of relying on heavy shielding.”

An ominous slithering noise echoes in the distance, followed by a series of sharp clacking that ramps up in volume before dropping abruptly to nothing. Iwaizumi thinks they might be on the right track. “I feel like we should have brought backup.”

Oikawa tosses a What Are You Talking About look at Iwaizumi with the full brunt of his big eyes (disdainful) and expressive mouth (also disdainful) and general aura of affront (especially disdainful). Iwaizumi receives it dutifully while some neglected part of his brain is incredibly indignant that he’s getting The Look at all when they are, quite literally, traipsing around in the sewers looking for illegal giant snakes that could kill them with a single glance.

“Don’t be silly, I’ve been doing this for years,” Oikawa says reproachfully, and Iwaizumi briefly wonders how long it’d take the police to fish Oikawa’s body out of the sewer system. “Besides, you’re here, aren’t you?”

Iwaizumi goes through several stages of emotion in the span of two seconds: being flattered against both his will and better judgment, realizing the exact nature of his reaction, and then promptly beating it to a gory and violent death. “Oikawa,” he grits out, feeling betrayed, “you and I doing this together instead of you doing it by yourself does not make me _backup_.”

“You’re right,” Oikawa says, in a considering sort of way. The smile on his face is subdued and flickering, like a candle instead of a spotlight. It’s unexpected, but not nearly as much as Oikawa turning to him and saying, “Does that make you my partner, Iwa-chan?”

Only years of job experience and the consequences of having lived through multiple instances of mortal peril keep Iwaizumi from falling into the sewage. Under normal circumstances, he’d refute it, shoot Oikawa down with a supremely disgusted _what the fuck are you talking about_ ,  but — under the werelights, Oikawa’s washed out and drawn; too young to be as tired as he is, too tired to be so young. He looks nothing like the monolith of Oikawa Tooru the department worships, and in that fleeting moment Iwaizumi wonders if he might be right. The word _partner_ implies a lot of things, none of which Iwaizumi has the energy to think too hard about at the moment, but _partner_ sounds a lot like _trust_ , the kind you can’t take back without first breaking it past the point of repair.

Is Oikawa Tooru a trust-inspiring figure? He’s spiteful and petty and prone to sulking, he steals Iwaizumi’s food on the regular and flirts shamelessly with half the building, and he once showed up to work with a hanger still stuck in the back of his shirt (which, okay, Iwaizumi had been impressed by at the time, even if it was just at the sheer ridiculousness of it). He commands the sort of respect lesser men could only ever dream of having; he’s unfairly pretty, terrifyingly competent, and maniacally driven. He’s an absolute mess of a human being and falling apart at the seams, and it’s not any of Iwaizumi’s business in the least but he can’t leave him alone anyway.

Does Iwaizumi trust Oikawa Tooru? For all his grievances and complaints, there’s only ever been one answer. “Yeah, it does,” he says honestly. “But you’re not always going to be fine on your own, and I can’t keep you safe by myself forever, so have a fucking care next time you think about pulling this shit.”

Oikawa’s looking at him wide-eyed, like he’s genuinely surprised and this is the first time anyone has ever suggested that maybe he should care more about himself, which makes Iwaizumi want to punch him, but only a little. And then he’s smiling again, and there’s a weird pressure in Iwaizumi’s chest, and now he just wants to punch _himself_. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Oikawa says lightly, still smiling like he’s got a secret, but his expression is intimate, somehow, like Iwaizumi had closed a distance he hadn’t known even existed. Iwaizumi doesn’t know if that’s supposed to make him like he’s lost his balance and also half his brain cells.

(It does. It’s catastrophic, and he’s very upset about it.)

So they’re having a _moment_ in the _sewers_ while the rest of Japan is eating lunch or having coffee or getting into minor traffic disputes, all of which are preferable to sewer-mining and being confused about Oikawa Tooru. But Iwaizumi is a _consummate professional_ , so he keeps his mouth shut and follows Oikawa down the damn tunnel. After an indeterminate amount of time stumbling around the labyrinthine bowels of Sendai, they find the operation: unguarded and abandoned at the moment, because _basilisks_ and _the sewers_ are pretty fucking good deterrents as far as security measures go. Oikawa sets a marker to use as a tracking beacon for the coming bust, and they both watch it dissipate.

“Next time we come down here, it’ll be with a full raid team and a shit ton of handcuffs,” Iwaizumi says as they head for the nearest exit.

“That’s very forward of you, Iwa-chan, but I feel compelled to let you know that’s a terrible first date, and I don’t put out that easily,” Oikawa says with unfiltered glee, and just like that, all three of Iwaizumi’s positive Oikawa-related feelings disappear.

“I’m going to murder you in cold blood and feed you to the basilisks,” Iwaizumi says conversationally.

“You can’t do that, I’m your boss,” Oikawa sings, positively sparkling. “Also we’re _partners_ , which means,” he points at Iwaizumi and leans in, “you’re stuck with me.”

It takes another ten minutes to get out of the sewer, the entirety of which Iwaizumi spends wracked with bitter regret over his poor decision-making skills. When the day is finally, _finally_ over, Iwaizumi drags himself through the drive home, the climb to his apartment, and a scalding shower before planting himself face-first in bed. Just as he’s creeping into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, he gets a message, which he checks with muted, impotent rage: it’s Oikawa, telling him to remember today’s date (the 21st), since it’s the official start of their partnership and therefore will be commemorated for the rest of their lives.

Iwaizumi sends him a message that could possibly be interpreted as _go to sleep_ , if Oikawa is selective enough to ignore the violent wording. Then he yanks the covers over his head, goes the fuck to sleep, and absolutely does _not_ dream about Oikawa and floating werelights and the absurdly vulnerable way he’d said _partner._

It’s pretty much the worst day of his life.

 

***

 

“I’d say this is a flagrant breach of at least sixteen different laws and five ethics codes,” Hanamaki says one Monday, waltzing over with a folder in his hand.

Iwaizumi looks up. “The case?”

“No, I was actually talking about the shirt you were wearing at the park yesterday,” Hanamaki says. “Do you buy your clothes yourself or did someone with terrible taste break into your house to swap closets? Inquiring minds would like to know.”

“That’s not very nice, Hanamaki-senpai,” Yahaba chides, because Yahaba is the only member of their department with any sense of social propriety. No, that’s not fair — Watari is also a perfectly nice young man who is both pleasant _and_ good at his job, something Iwaizumi now realizes he’s taken for granted all his life. He closes his eyes and takes a brief moment to mourn the passing of his halcyon days, i.e. back when his coworkers didn’t take it upon themselves to snap candids of Iwaizumi out and about on his days off like he was some sort of goddamn cryptid and then criticize his wardrobe.

(AKA: the group LINE chat is peppered with blurry, magnified photos of Iwaizumi ‘in the wild’ — at the convenience store, on his weekend jogs, on the train — accompanied by detailed commentary and a set of scores out of 10. Matsukawa assures him the point system in question is calculated using an algorithm he guards with his life. Iwaizumi suspects that this might be Matsukawa’s way of comforting him.)

Hanamaki shakes his head, tapping the folder against Yahaba’s head. Yahaba, too respectful of his seniors by far, does nothing to stop him. “How little you know, young one. Do we not strive to defend justice?”

“Just give me the damn files,” Iwaizumi says, to save Yahaba the indignity of having to reply, and also because who cares what he wears when he goes jogging? After flipping through the case file, Iwaizumi wouldn’t put the precise number of felonies and moral depravities at sixteen and five respectively, but it comes pretty close.

Yahaba looks at the case file in his hand with suspicion. This is justified due to their jobs revolving around crime, but also unjustified, due to their jobs revolving around crime. “Well?”

“I can’t believe running a string of lotus nightclubs for blatant trafficking purposes and unregistered foreign sirens working without visas are the tamest things going on here,” Iwaizumi marvels, leafing through the pile. “Still really fucking illegal, don’t get me wrong, but holy shit.”

“It’s a very delicate case,” Hanamaki says solemnly to Yahaba, who nods understandingly. “Which is of course why Oikawa is putting you and Kyoutani on it.”

To say Yahaba and Kyoutani don’t get along would be like saying _well, ghost peppers are kind of spicy, I guess._ Kyoutani, despite his incredible performance in the field, will probably not be winning any awards for cooperativeness in the foreseeable future. Yahaba, despite looking like a sweetheart boy-next-door from the kind of drama Iwaizumi’s mother likes to watch, carries rage with him like a knife up his sleeve.

Neither of them are bad kids, per se: it’s just that putting them together usually results in a lot of shouting and Yahaba throwing his hands up with an expression on his face that would have Iwaizumi calling the police if they weren’t, well, the police. More than once, Iwaizumi has considered inviting them to either a counseling session or his gym so they can try to talk it out or just take their aggression out on exercise equipment before one of them (probably Yahaba) flips their shit for real.

“ _What_ ,” Yahaba says, the abhorrence on his face almost comical. “You can’t be serious.”

Four months ago, Iwaizumi might have agreed with Yahaba. Now he just claps him on the shoulder and says, “The two of you do good work when you’re not trying to maim each other. Good luck.”

“What he said,” Hanamaki nods, and leaves Yahaba cradling his head in his hands with the general air and misery of a middle-aged salaryman drinking away the futility of his existence in a shoebox izakaya.

Yahaba takes Iwaizumi’s words to heart and puts a truly admirable amount of effort into forging a better relationship with Kyoutani. There’s a lot of yelling, and the degree of stiltedness in their every interaction is, quite frankly, embarrassing for everybody involved, but they make it through the case without maiming each other, as promised.

At the next drinking party, Oikawa heaps praise on their heads and food on their plates and Matsukawa pours them both a staggering amount of alcohol while Hanamaki cheers. Kindaichi looks afraid, and Watari’s trying to reassure him that it’s fine, they’ve been doing this for years and no one’s been to the hospital _yet_ — cue momentary terror flitting across Kindaichi’s face before he manages to muster an appropriate response. Kunimi gives the whole lot of them a wide berth, occasionally whipping his phone out to film blackmail material.

It’s absolute mayhem, but when Oikawa meets his eyes from across the table and beams without restraint, Iwaizumi smiles back without meaning to and for one noisy night, happiness curls up and makes a home in his chest.

 

***

 

It’s not all good, though. Winter rolls around, and big cases hit them one after another. The usually smooth-running office turns into an absolute madhouse. People are scurrying. _Scurrying_. Iwaizumi’s seen rats move around with more leisure.

Hanamaki starts stress-binging sweets, and sometimes Yahaba opens a window, sticks his head out, and just screams for a bit. One time Matsukawa slams his palms on his desk and yells, “ _What do you mean the perp got away, you had him under three wards,_ ” and then says things that don’t bear repeating in polite company very loudly for about three solid minutes. Watari scrambles around running errands and fetching files and compiling lists and basically doing the work of five people at once.

Iwaizumi, for his part, gets stuck in the awful cycle of getting sent to the field for two hours and then getting sent to the hospital for four, tapping his foot and cursing government procedure for wasting his time because he is _clearly_ fine and has work to do. He’s not allowed to take files outside, so everything is awful and Sugawara takes one look at him and wordlessly dumps a bag of snacks in his lap. Iwaizumi aggressively crunches his way through three bags of chips while nervous nurses avoid eye contact.

They’re slammed with press conferences, too — Oikawa’s either out giving statements or cooped up in his desk working like he has no other purpose in life. There’s a solid week where Iwaizumi’s certain Oikawa just doesn’t go home, and every time Iwaizumi tells him to take a breather, Oikawa brushes him off with a laugh and a wave of his hand. The lights in the office are always on, the computers are always running, and the electricity bill for the month will no doubt be dreadful. Work keeps them keyed-up and baggy-eyed and becoming pioneers in the realm of multicasting recovery spells.

He can see the clickbait article now: _WE CHUGGED POTIONS AND CAST HEALING SPELLS FOR A MONTH INSTEAD OF SLEEPING AND EATING PROPERLY. HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED:_

What happens is —

Iwaizumi comes back from the water cooler one late night and finds Oikawa collapsed at his desk, and everything grinds to a screeching, ugly stop until Iwaizumi finds a pulse.

“I’ve never met anyone with as little self preservation as you,” Iwaizumi says when Oikawa’s conscious again. His hands are shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s from fear or anger, so he just curls them into fists. “One of these days, you — _one of these days_ , you’re going to wreck yourself. You’re going to go too far and fall the fuck apart, you know that?”

“That’s harsh, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, still smiling, and it’s horrible in every conceivable way and then some; it’s got Iwaizumi tearing his hair out with raw frustration because — because — how is it that Oikawa spends every day of his life clawing his way out of every shortcoming, every deficiency he can find in himself except for the one that _matters?_ “Are you worried about me?”

It’s the careful smile, it’s the perfectly calculated tone of his voice, it’s the three-degree angle tilt of his head and the way he’s careful not to show his teeth — such little things, but Iwaizumi feels like he’s standing on top of a sea wall two hundred feet high, looking for someone determined to stay adrift and never come back to land. It shouldn’t be enough to set him off. It is. “Oh, that’s _it_.”

“What,” Oikawa begins, but it’s too late. Iwaizumi grabs him by the collar and hauls him bodily across the entire department to the elevator, hitting the light switch as he passes by it. He shoves Oikawa into the elevator when it opens and gets in himself, and as the elevator descends, they stand there in an awkward semi square-off where Iwaizumi’s got his arms folded in a way that brooks no room for argument. Oikawa shows no sign of resisting, but he’s unexpectedly meek and bizarrely compliant, which is infinitely worse. In a moment of lunacy, Iwaizumi thinks about kittens, and how when grabbed by the scruff they go all docile and limp and it’s absurd, absolutely _absurd_ that he’s comparing a.) Oikawa Tooru to b.) kittens.

Hanamaki would laugh him out of the building. Matsukawa would book him an appointment with the department psychologist and leave the slip on his desk with flowers.

Maybe it’s time for early retirement.

The lights flicker. The elevator hums. This might be the longest Oikawa’s ever gone without saying anything when they aren’t on the clock. When the doors open to the parking garage, Iwaizumi heads over to his car and jabs a thumb at Oikawa. “Get in.”

“Kidnapping is a crime, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, having recovered enough functionality to be a pain in his ass. “All these months of working together, and I never suspected a thing. Are you taking me to your serial killer lair?”

“You know what? I just might be,” Iwaizumi says without thinking, yanking the door open. “Maybe then you’d take a damn break for once.”

So maybe that’s not the smartest thing to say after dragging Oikawa to the abandoned garage and ordering him to get in his car, but if Oikawa _really_ thought he was a serial killer, he wouldn’t be buckling his seat belt like a chastised primary school student, would he?

The drive home is dead silent; the trudge to his apartment equally stifling and still. By the time Iwaizumi flips the lights on, most of his anger has fizzled out, replaced with a weariness that gnaws at his bones with thousands of tiny sharp teeth. He’s probably just getting old. Iwaizumi throws open the bedroom door and points at the bed. “I’ll take the couch.”

Oikawa’s silence is leagues more alarming than any tantrum or fuss. Iwaizumi takes a moment to catalogue the impossibility of Oikawa Tooru standing in his apartment, quiet and haggard and a little forlorn, at one in the morning. He looks exactly the way anyone would after months of sixty-hour weeks and years of desperate overwork, after a lifetime of fighting to be good enough. Iwaizumi hates it.

“The cases aren’t going anywhere,” Iwaizumi points out, after a small eternity. Apparently Oikawa isn’t, either. What he says next isn’t fair and he knows it, but Oikawa’s at the point in sleep deprivation where he might start hallucinating if kept awake any longer, and Iwaizumi just wants to get through Oikawa’s concrete skull. “Or do you just not think the rest of us can do our jobs properly?”

Oikawa looks up at him sharply. “I don’t think that,” he says, and Iwaizumi’s overwhelmingly relieved at the indignation in his voice. “It’s not — I don’t think you’re incompetent, I just — whatever I do, it’s never _enough, I’m_ never enough, and I don’t — have the time to fall behind.”

Iwaizumi folds his arms. Oikawa’s not telling him anything he doesn’t already know, but Iwaizumi doesn’t have the right answer to give, and he’s so, so out of his depth it’d be funny if it wasn’t so pitiful. He knows how to take down monsters and men, and the right way to fix broken bones, but not how to fix — this. Oikawa’s fixed his gaze stubbornly on the floor, mouth clamped shut, and Iwaizumi thinks he’d trade everything in his brain for the right thing to say if he could, but he can’t, so he sucks it up and starts talking. “I really have no idea what to say to change your mind.”

Oikawa gives him the most miserable smile Iwaizumi’s ever had the misfortune to see in his life. “I appreciate the thought, Iwa-chan, but — ”

“No, shut up for a minute,” Iwaizumi says impatiently, shushing Oikawa with a held-up hand. “Is the world going to end if you get eight hours of sleep a night? Will the department fall apart if you don’t lurk there at night like some sort of bridge troll?” _Bridge troll_ , Oikawa mouths, in disbelief. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re under thirty and the captain of a major crimes unit. You’ll probably end up the head of national security someday, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa are going to laugh at you on TV anyway because they’re awful and I don’t know why we’re friends outside of work.”

“Never become a lawyer,” Oikawa advises him kindly, like this moment, _this exact moment_ is the perfect time to be giving Iwaizumi career advice.

“But the point is,” Iwaizumi keeps going valiantly. This is a train headed for disaster but he finishes what he starts, _damn it,_ “none of that is going to happen if you work yourself to death, so do me a fucking favor and go to sleep before I knock you out myself.”

“Ever the brute, as always,” Oikawa says faintly, but the harried look in his eyes has gone away and his shoulders have loosened up, even if only by a fraction.

There’s a lot more Iwaizumi wants to say, but he doesn’t know how. Oikawa’s lifelong issues aren’t going to go away overnight just because Iwaizumi yelled at him in his bedroom for five minutes and threatened to punch his lights out. “I’m worried and I care about you,” he says, instead of literally anything else in the world. Whatever. It’s true, and he was never going to be a lawyer in the first place.

For some reason, _that’s_ what gets Oikawa to really look at him for the first time through this entire fiasco, like Iwaizumi admitting he’s a human being with feelings, feelings about Oikawa specifically, is somehow the biggest surprise of his whole damn life. “You — ?”

“Oh no,” Iwaizumi says, already backing up towards the door. “I’m not doing this tonight. See you in the morning.”

Being a man of his word, he shoves Oikawa towards the bed, shuts the door on his way to the living room, and flings himself at his couch with the speed of a cannonball and the ardent desperation of a pair of lovers reuniting at the airport. He’ll deal with the rest of his life tomorrow.

 

***

 

Judging from his closed bedroom door, The Rest Of His Life (alternate name: Oikawa) is still asleep, so Iwaizumi gets up and makes breakfast and ignores the way he just called Oikawa The Rest Of His Life. Some things in life don’t bear thinking about, and this is one of them. The door opens just as he’s setting the table, and he looks up and meets Oikawa’s eyes, and —

 _THE REST OF HIS LIFE_ blares like police sirens in his head. “Morning,” he says, eternally thankful Oikawa isn’t a telepath.

“Good morning,” Oikawa says, after a pause. Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa’s rumpled hair and clothes and everything and finds it endearing, which is how he knows his life is over, actually. The weight of this realization also shuts down his brain, so for a few seconds they’re just staring at each other from opposite ends of the table while Iwaizumi tries to make words happen.

Iwaizumi’s brain decides to turn on, way too late but also better than not at all. “You hungry?”

Oikawa makes a face like he has to think about it. “Yeah,” he decides, pulling out a chair.

They eat without saying much. It’s quiet and more than a little awkward, but it’s not _bad_ , and for the most part Iwaizumi’s just glad Oikawa’s eating breakfast for once. It’s not until they’re doing the dishes that Oikawa says, “Iwa-chan,” and Iwaizumi goes, “What?” and Oikawa looks him right in the eye and says “Thank you,” and just like that —

— just like that, the air in the room gets a little lighter.

 

***

 

Things aren’t always good, but that doesn’t mean they’re always bad. The world keeps spinning the way it always has and always will, except now Oikawa sleeps more and Iwaizumi sleeps better and the maniac edge he used to see in Oikawa’s face softens into something easier to bear. Oh, they’re still racking up more overtime than the department can probably afford, but it’s less than before, and that’s a start.

Cases come and go. For some reason, there are three separate mermaid-trafficking ring busts in the same _month._ Three times Iwaizumi shows up to the raid in full gear, and three times Iwaizumi has to get shirtless in the name of Not Drowning To Death because there’s always _someone_ who can’t swim and winds up in the sea anyway.

“This is ridiculous,” he says the third time he has to dive into the ocean ( _shirtless_ ) to fish someone out in _February._ “Shouldn’t you know how to swim if you’re coming on a raid _by the ocean?_ Japan is an island, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s obviously a ploy to get you as naked as possible and then profit,” Hanamaki drawls. Matsukawa is trying (and failing) to hide his laughter. Oikawa isn’t trying at all, and is in fact wheezing slightly.

Sweet, dutiful Watari hands Iwaizumi a charmed blanket because Watari is one of the few remaining people in the squad who has never let him down. Iwaizumi thanks him and buries himself in the warmth to keep his body heat where it should be. “What’s the point of getting _me_ naked? I like being bulletproof. Everyone should like their friends being bulletproof.”

“Do you remember your first day, when Oikawa said you were a gorilla,” Matsukawa begins.

“I did _not_ say he was a gorilla,” Oikawa gasps, affronted. “Stop slandering me in public, Mattsun.”

“Do you remember when Oikawa said he saw the resemblance between you and a gorilla, then,” Matsukawa corrects himself.

Iwaizumi grimaces. “How could I forget?”

“ _Mattsun,_ ” Oikawa wails. Yahaba looks torn between hysteria and his duty as a subordinate officer. "This is _treason_."

“He meant it as a compliment,” Matsukawa assures him, over the sound of Oikawa’s anguish.

“Just say he has nice arms next time,” Hanamaki says to Oikawa.

 

***

 

One year and three months after Iwaizumi’s transfer to Division 4, a promotion offer swoops down on him from the higher branches of the managerial tree; the specifics of which involve changing not only his rank, but his division as well. Iwaizumi asks for a few days to think it over for appearances’ sake, even though he’s already made his decision. He keeps it to himself, which of course means everybody knows the next day because his coworkers are hopelessly nosy and solve magical crimes for a living.

Yahaba doesn’t bring it up, likely because Yahaba knows when something isn’t any of his business. Watari, Kindaichi, and Kunimi are much the same, although in Kunimi’s case it’s probably just that he doesn’t care, and Kindaichi’s been brought up by a respectable family and is therefore a respectable, respectful boy. Kyoutani mostly just sneaks furtive glances in his direction every now and then, which is distracting but harmless, so he lets it go.

Hanamaki places a wooden effigy on Iwaizumi’s desk and says it’s his replacement, and if he could just dab some of his blood on it _that’d be great, thanks._ Iwaizumi would dismiss this as a joke if Hanamaki didn’t have a master’s degree in literal fucking witchcraft. Matsukawa keeps staring at Iwaizumi pensively, and they both _know_ he knows, but Matsukawa won’t ever _say_ anything.

Three hours ago Matsukawa told him his favorite method of interrogation was complete silence. Iwaizumi’s been on red alert ever since.

And then there’s Oikawa.

“Well, it’s not too late for you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, after two days of sulking, and two days of Iwaizumi continuing to work in the same division. It’s casual and light and meticulously careless. Iwaizumi sees right through him. “It’s great for your career, isn’t it?”

Iwaizumi cares about his bureaucratic and possibly political advancement the same way he cares about flying business class on a half-hour flight and the number of Michelin stars a restaurant has: that is to say, not at all. Maybe there are a thousand reasons for it, or maybe there’s just one, and in the end, it’s fine either way. “I’m not taking the promotion.”

“But,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi’s barreling on regardless, shattering everything in Oikawa’s no-bulls-allowed china shop.

“But _nothing_ ,” Iwaizumi says, jabbing a finger at Oikawa’s chest. “I’m not leaving unless they fire me. I’m staying with you and this absolute mess of a division, even if I’m going gray at twenty-eight and Matsukawa runs a blog about how I’m actually half-Sasquatch on the side — don’t give me that look, _of course_ I know, it’s in the group chat, I have _eyes,_ Oikawa — I don’t care. Are you just — are you an idiot? Is that what it is?”

Oikawa blinks at him, mouth hanging open unattractively. “Excuse me?”

“The twenty-first of September,” Iwaizumi says, ignoring him with practiced indifference. “We’ve still got two months to go. Don’t tell me you’re passing up a chance to make me treat you to dinner.”

“Only if I get to pick the restaurant,” Oikawa retorts on reflex, and then relaxes. “Iwa-chan, I was _trying_ to be nice. I think I deserve points for the effort.”

“Oikawa, you’ve _never_ been nice,” Iwaizumi says without mercy. The very thought of it is absurd. Oikawa sputters. “I’m sorry, am I wrong?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you should _say_ it,” Oikawa complains, but he’s smiling again, and Iwaizumi is, too.

To no one’s surprise, Iwaizumi turns down the promotion. Hanamaki and Matsukawa throw him a party anyway, and when he walks into the office, there’s a hand-painted banner hanging from the ceiling that says, _THANK YOU FOR NOT GETTING PROMOTED,_ which is easily the worst banner Iwaizumi’s ever seen.

(Obviously, he treasures it with his life.)

 

***

 

Putting the paperwork aside, Iwaizumi’s life is pretty much pandemonium. Half the time he doesn’t need to worry about showing up to work on time because he’s already there, and if his (turned down) promotion offer is any indication, he’s doing his job well. Hanamaki and Matsukawa try to get him to sign a blood pact (which he declines), Yahaba and Kyoutani go to his gym now (and bicker over sets instead of getting into fights), Watari and Kindaichi remain his only sources of sanity (he treats them to lunch frequently because blatant favoritism), and Kunimi still doesn’t talk much but calls him _Iwaizumi-senpai_ and gives him nods of acknowledgment when they make eye contact (he’s touched).

His boss is a food thief and never takes care of himself and blasts terrible music in the car when they’re out investigating, which by default makes him a terrible partner. Iwaizumi’s still the one voluntarily accompanying him down sewers and into abandoned factories, though. More fool him, he supposes.

So things are good — not perfect, but nothing ever is, and when Oikawa smiles and says, “Iwa-chan,” Iwaizumi will roll his eyes — and follow him anyway.

 

***

 

(08:32:05) SAWAMURA: Am I still a liar?

(08:32:48) IWAIZUMI: Don’t be petty.

(08:33:03) IWAIZUMI: And no.

 

**Author's Note:**

> dear Giftee (TM): 
> 
> first off i feel like i should apologize for the complete lack of poetic atmosphere/artistic spirit in this fic (which could alternately be titled Seijou Shitpost Magical B99 AU edition) but i hope you enjoyed reading it despite that!! happy interhigh yall


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